Oh, dear, I’ve been a very bad blogger. I am sorry. I have no excuses. I have whinings, if anyone cares to hear them. No? Didn’t think so, but it’s my blog, heh heh heh.
In the first place, I am tired. I am so fed up of being permanently tired that whenever I find myself saying ‘I’m tired’ I want to slap myself. Somehow, this doesn’t stop me being tired. I am taking the iron pills, but not very consistently, as, to be frank and disgusting, they give me the most godawful combination of constipation, bloating and poisonous wind, and sometimes I’d just like to have a day in which doing up my trousers isn’t accompanied by a chorus of groans and squeaks. I am also now well entrenched into the first packet of birth control pills (screams of irony, yes, still, haven’t gotten over it yet) and I now (and for the past week) merely spot decorously. Unless I happen to do any exercise, and then I bleed a little. And I’ve only just these past two days stopped having cramps (Doctor Google says endometriosis. I say, stop talking to Doctor Google, he merely exists to make you paranoid). But mostly, consistently, and persistently, I’m tired as hell.
It has been a socially busy week as well – a friend came over from the States, and a group of us planned any amount of meet-ups and amusements, and then another friend wanted to come and stay at the weekend, and the flat looked, well, shameful, really, and I found myself tidying up, crying, and shouting at H all at once in a grand fervour of total unreasonableness. And I had to miss out on one of the outings because I was so bloody tired I developed a crashing headache and did I mention a tendency to get irritable and cry? Anyway, H is very patient with me. I keep making the somewhat bizarre assumption that no one wants to hear about my health and not therefore mentioning it and trying to keep frantically up and then everyone looks completely bewildered when I fall over and start bawling.
Part of the problem is social expectations. I am a big, strapping, plump, rosy-faced milkmaid of a woman. Women who look like me are patently not anaemic, or in pain, or tired. Look at those biceps! Look at the pink cheeks! Picture of Rubenesque health. So I feel a complete fraud when I’m actually too wiped out to keep up. Even if people most certainly are NOT giving me suspicious and incredulous looks, I worry that they are (and yes, I do blame my parents. I’m allowed to – it’s their fault). The last time I looked pale and thin I had glandular fever and an ovarian cyst so large it kept cutting off the circulation to my left leg. And even then, I was only thin because I lived on toast and black coffee. Idiot teenager.
Where was I going with this? Oh yes. Tired. All the damn time. So boring. Please please let it stop. Also, must remember nevertheless to tell people, and especially poor H, that I’m tired, or they’ll have no idea whatsoever that I’m not coping and need tea and a lie down and someone else to do, well, everything. No fair running self into ground behind rosy-faced plumptious camouflage and then throwing a tantrum because no one’s noticed.
In the second place, nothing is happening, waiting-for-surgery-wise.
In the third place, all I really want to talk about are things that, on mature consideration, make me feel like a raging bitch. So I thought I’d wait until I ‘got perspective’ and stopped being text-book bitter infertile.
You see, a lady I know and am fond of, recently had a baby. It was a simply horrible labour, culminating in an emergency caesarian, during which she nearly bled to death and came within a gnats’ whisker of having an emergency hysterectomy instead. You’ll agree, highly unfortunate and upsetting and not a good way to meet one’s off-spring. She has, however, retained the use of her uterus and is assured that the next one may well be a perfectly normal and straight-forward delivery. She is, quite understandably, upset that it went so badly, and made a remark that she felt less than a ‘proper woman’ because she failed to have a normal birth.
Normally at this point I’d have leapt in with something reassuring and praised her absolutely to the skies for getting through it etc. And I will, I promise I will, email her this very sentiment when I’m done here. Because she went through hell. And she is entitled to her feelings. And I am very keen on people being entitled to their feelings, even when considerably less appropriate than hers.
But, but, but. She got pregnant practically first try, at a time when some of us were really really not that damn lucky. The child is healthy and beautiful. She can have more if she wants them. I, the way I feel right now, would HAPPILY give up a normal labour, indeed, let them have the damn uterus, in exchange for one, only one, healthy baby of my own. If she’s not a ‘proper woman’, for failing to squeeze the perfect infant out all by herself, what in buggery hell am I, whose equipment can’t even start a pregnancy, let alone carry one to term? What term is left for those of us this fucked up?
Anyway. I am not, please God, a cow, so I shall be keeping this one among ourselves. And I shall tell my friend she’s amazing. Because she is. And it’s not her problem that I envy her so bloody much right now.